


The Hotel

by MemoryCrow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Control Issues, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, POV Jim Moriarty, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow





	The Hotel

Moriarty arrived first, a slip of paper in his coat pocket with the name of the hotel and a room number scripted upon it. The concierge had handed him a key-card without question.

He’d passed Mycroft in the street, just outside of the Diogenes Club. They’d barely made eye-contact, but their fingertips touched. The paper was delivered to Moriarty’s hand.

Mycroft. The thought made Moriarty shivery-hot. He slipped out of his dark coat and paced the room, looking at innocuous and placidly lovely things without interest. An overstuffed chair in a dark print, Berber carpet in a neutral and unobtrusive shade. The rolling and scrolled woodwork of a Queen Anne vanity in dark walnut, along with its accompanying mirror.

A double bed. It was fluffy with a quilted down comforter in eggshell and amassed with oversized pillows.

Moriarty’s scowl was habitual and he caught sight of it in the mirror, brow tense and a jaw that forecasted an old man’s jowls. He scowled, but was not displeased. The room didn’t matter; it would suit. He tossed his coat over the chair.

He liked being early, getting a feel for the emptiness of the room, a space soon to be filled. He liked the tightness in his belly, the suppressed energy in his limbs that kept him pacing a moment longer. Into the bright bathroom, a brief turning on and off of taps. Big and fluffy was the way of luxury hotels… big, fluffy bed, big, fluffy towels. Many shades that might otherwise be called ‘white’. Dark furniture, a splash of color that was a still-life upon the wall, varnished canvas framed in a wealth of carved and gilded wood.

Moriarty could have been in a gritty alley and found great pleasure in it. He could kneel on a bathroom floor, make a naughty hand beneath a tabletop. He could undo his trousers in the back of a cab and delightedly watch Mycroft fluster with anxiety.

But Mycroft liked the trappings of comfort, and that pleased Moriarty as well. For one, it meant Mycroft had been thinking about it. Oh, that was good. Bloody Mycroft. With his clipped accent and pompous manner, his long body done up in dapper suits, an airy intelligence that suggested he did not dally in matters below the belt.

He did dally, yes indeed. He dallied, and had been thinking of a dalliance. Planning.

Two; the trappings of comfort meant there was no hurry. _Luxury_ meant _luxuriate_. Moriarty began undoing things; tie, cuffs, belt. A furtive fuck was rather his specialty, not typically one to linger.

Well, until Mycroft. Now he loved to linger. _Come in, pet. Stay a spell_. He loved to sleep awhile, after; cat nap. Then become lazily aroused, all over again. More than anything he loved watching Mycroft. He loved knowing him in a way others could not. A serious loss of control in a controlled man. An uncompromising man who compromised himself for Moriarty’s questionable attentions.

It was unexpectedly seductive. It surpassed an initial and calculated feeling that information, data could be mined from the exchange.

Buggar; he just wanted it. Moriarty was all hunger, all want. A bottomless pit.

Shoes were toed-off, still laced. Mycroft hated untidiness, but Moriarty was untidy. Shoes here, socks there, belt in a coiled heap by the bed, cuff links on the vanity and tie lost in the darkness of his coat, slung across the chair. Excited, he undressed to nakedness. More untidiness. He looked in the mirror for a moment, less an act of vanity, rather, he wondered what Mycroft saw. What drew him in? What caused him to risk reputation and name, career and family?

Moriarty was a small man. His body was fit and compact. His face was from another time… it needed a top hat, or overblown sideburns. In a different way, the same was true of Mycroft.

Moriarty’s eyes were black – _black as your soul_ , Mycroft said, not without fondness. Moriarty enjoyed the notion. He ordered his tea that way, his coffee. A creepy smile to an uncertain waitress, an inappropriate stare-down that went from her breasts to her eyes. _I’ll take it as black as my soul, love_. As she scratched on her pad, anxious for escape, he allowed an even creepier understanding to seep into the blackness of his eyes. _Thanks_ , he added, but it came out as _Tanks_.

He liked darkness. He was comfortable within it. Mycroft, outwardly, did not seem a man who was overly drawn to darkness, but Moriarty had begun to wonder.

He crawled onto the fluff and froth of the bed. He tossed oversized pillows to the floor… more for Mycroft to judge upon entry. To look down his nose and frown upon. It sent ripples of pleasure through the black ache that was Moriarty’s hot-beverage soul. It was a terrible tease… he looked at the mess he’d made and imagined Mycroft’s displeasure. Displeasure in Moriarty, displeasure in his inability to stay away. Corrective action might need to be taken, authoritative hands put to Moriarty, a rough and displeased handling.

When Mycroft entered, Moriarty was displayed like Christmas dinner. Had he only a glossy apple to gag upon. He was splayed upon the bed, legs sprawled, one arm behind his head. His cock was hard and antsy upon his trim belly, flushed and thrilled with anticipation. He fondled it, the backs of his fingers in a light, up and down caress.

“Hi.” He took a casual, sing-song tone.

Immediately, Mycroft flushed with a frown. He closed the door quickly, spooked. His eyes moved over the clutter on the floor, then back to the pornography that was Moriarty.

“Did you miss me?” Moriarty asked. He manufactured a pout.

Well. It put Mycroft in a bit of a tight spot, didn’t it. Of course he was missed, hence the planning, the slip of paper whispered into his hand, secreted in his coat pocket. What Mycroft wanted from the rendezvous was clear, but it seemed impossible for him to be frank about it.

Instead, he sniffed and gave Moriarty a dismissive look. It made Moriarty grin an impish grin.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home.” Mycroft said. He sounded stiff, annoyed. He began undoing his outer wrappings; jacket, waistcoat. Moriarty’s lips parted.

“You know nothing of my home, Mycroft. My dear.”

This, as was the mess, was a dig. It was meant to provoke, and it did…. For Moriarty knew much of Mycroft’s home.

Attraction was a peculiar thing. Moriarty, who liked to examine things this way and that, pulled apart and put together differently, was still uncertain as to how it worked. He cared not at all for pretty boys and their ilk, for a classically handsome man or an open-faced, friendly and hunky sort of fellow. They made him yawn, collectively and individually. _Boring_. Their faces, their bodies… their words and upholding of the status quo. Even the clever ones seemed dull.

Mycroft, though. Moriarty felt himself flush as if touched, a hot feeling beneath his sternum that spread both up and down. A line of goosebumps that hardened his nipples and made the hairs on his arms and legs stand up. A pulse, stealthy in his groin, throbbed.

As layers peeled off, Mycroft studiously looking down, it began to be revealed that he had a bit of a belly, love handles. He was otherwise a long and lean man – skinny in youth, Moriarty thought – who had thickened in the middle with age. He’d grown a butt which wanted grabbing. His hairline receded and age was to be seen at his eyes, his neck; he had a good ten years on Moriarty. His nose was long, his ears big.

It all turned Moriarty feverishly _on_ , as if a switch had been flipped within his body. He watched, black eyes full of hunger, waiting for Mycroft to be completely naked. Waiting for a long crawl, onto the bed and over his offered body; the sudden dropping of any remaining pretense.

“You _did_ miss me.” He said, voice soft.

Mycroft crawled. It was almost upsetting to Moriarty, it was so arousing. Mycroft’s long and warm body, abruptly uncivilized, on hands and knees. It was as though Moriarty found himself unexpected stalked, an animal moving over him. He took in Moriarty’s light eyes, the gleam of them as he gluttoned himself on the sight of Moriarty. He let himself drown in the feeling of being covered, of Mycroft _over_ him, all long limbs and eager cock. Mycroft’s mouth came down upon his, and he could in no way control the whimper that escaped his throat, the surge of his body as his tongue met Mycroft’s.

The kiss was raw and hungry, open mouths and hot tongues. Moriarty’s arms came around Mycroft and pulled him down, needing his weight. His heart raced so that he might be flung right out of his body.

He wrapped his legs around Mycroft, hooked at the ankle. He whimpered, again, to feel the rocking of their bodies, the warm nuzzle of Mycroft’s cock to his own. His mouth devoured, his eyes closed and his mind cavorted in a darkness that was surely as black as his soul.

The kiss calmed, the edge of hunger briefly sated. Lips nuzzled. Mycroft buried his face to Moriarty’s neck, kissing there, biting. At Moriarty’s ear, he said, “Yes, I missed you. You bloody paradigm of wickedness. You reprobate menace. I missed you.”

Moriarty, head thrown back in bliss, felt himself purr. “How sweet of you to say.” He breathed. “And don’t forget; I’m _messy_.”

Mycroft moved back to his mouth. The kiss devoured once more, the motion of pelvis rollicking, single-minded and intense. A growl was in his chest and it made Moriarty breathless.

“Yes, _messy_.” Mycroft agreed. “Devilishly so. Odious. Low-down- _dirty_.”

His hands moved over Moriarty, who was coming undone.

This, Moriarty thought, only a little separated from his body, a habit of thinking. How he loved to see Mycroft lose control, but… oh. To have his own ever-present and undeniable control yanked out from under him. To free-fall, held only by Mycroft’s body, his voice. He gulped air and groaned, wanting to be taken, to be filled and owned.

Seemingly without effort, Mycroft flipped him over. Moriarty’s eyelashes fluttered, eyes briefly opening and then closing again. His face from another time demanded that he was presented in a nightshirt, lifted up by the man who would violate him. But he was in his own time, naked and willing, on the verge of begging.

Mycroft slapped his butt, the sharp sound of the slap like glory in Moriarty’s head. His breath whooshed out, face to the bed.

“Malign fiend.” Mycroft said, his voice hushed. He slapped again, and Moriarty could only distantly feel it as pain. It thrilled him, and he surprised himself with a laugh, a bubble that blurted up from his chest, his mouth open. Another slap landed and he moaned, loudly. His hips ground to the bed.

“Dishonorable, sinister, dark and brooding, brilliant demon. Quick-witted serpent. Clever, depraved imp.”

In-between slaps, Mycroft’s mouth murmured at his ear. Long fingers caressed his body and grasped in his hair. They played between his legs, a wakeful tease at his perineum. Moriarty panted, yielding and biddable in every foreseeable way. He lifted his hips, opening himself. He sucked Mycroft’s fingers, getting them wet. He pleaded to be fingered.

“Like this?” Mycroft asked, long fingers defiling.

“Yes. _Yes_!”

God. Moriarty felt it… the free-fall. A drop into endless darkness where he would fall and fall, only to burst into flame.

Mycroft was compromised, certainly, for exposure would change everything in his life. But Moriarty began to realize that he, too, was compromised. His relationship with Mycroft, his _need_ could make him lose himself. He could simply disappear, become ashes. Giving weight to the realization was the bone-deep feeling that it was all he wanted.

Body still transgressed, impaled, he turned himself about. He pulled his knees back and stroked his frantic cock. He reached for Mycroft’s cock, a long and feverish instrument that would be his undoing.

“Put it in me.” He said, hoarse.

Mycroft looked the way Moriarty felt. Hair a mess, it’s lack at temple and sprouting quality all about gave Mycroft a derelict look. Blushes were hectic at his cheek and chest, blotchy at his neck. He was so pale, the blushes were like war paint, showing clearly the agitation of his blood. His blue eyes were dark with wide-open pupils. He panted from parted and swollen lips, bruised with kisses.

Moriarty wanted penetration, desperately, but Mycroft delayed. He crawled further up the bed and straddled Moriarty’s face, further undoing Moriarty. Moriarty moaned helplessly, cock twitching and hands clamped to Mycroft’s butt, his mouth invaded and full of voluptuous heat. Mycroft thrust and Moriarty felt as if he might come. Or openly weep. He wanted so much; too much.

It was overwhelming to have Mycroft’s hand in his hair, controlling his movements. Mycroft over him, indecent and greedy.

Mycroft pulled out of his mouth and nestled his cock against Moriarty’s lips, his face. That was overwhelming, too. Moriarty whimpered and mewled, feeling all sense of self abandoned. Mycroft moved down his body, and Moriarty could barely catch a breath before he felt himself plied with slick wetness. Volatile, he watched Mycroft stroke himself, getting lubricant all over his length. He pressed, holding his cock, at Moriarty’s hole.

There was resistance, then Moriarty felt as if he suddenly dilated. He took Mycroft in and the shock of it raced all over his body, his skin. The shock melted into a rush… Mycroft’s steady thrusts, an echo of pain at Moriarty’s opening, a fraught and building pressure, deep in his pelvic floor. No longer able to make sound, he clung to Mycroft, wrapped around him. He rode against the cock that rode him, gasping and sometimes not breathing at all. His hand became frenzied at his overwrought cock, and he again felt the free-fall. It was a frightful thing… panic-stricken, distraught, eruptive to the point of hysteria. It was as if he would die, and he welcomed it. He courted and romanced it, the unnamed thing he had wished for, always.

The wildness inside broke. Moriarty’s voice returned and spilled from his mouth in loud gasps and moans. Come spurted from his cock, the vice that held him breathless was abruptly released. Surely he would burst into fire… there could be no other conclusion. But, no. The free-fall ended with his body in a heap of bedclothes, capsized and completely wanton, distantly aware that Mycroft pulled out and urgently pumped his own cock, spilling seed onto Moriarty’s belly.

How freakish and absurd, that they were still in a hotel room. That they were whole and relatively undamaged. The room had not burned to the ground around them… it didn’t even seem as though blood was spilled.

Mycroft collapsed onto Moriarty. Moriarty felt the fast beating of his heart, a disturbing counter-rhythm to his own heart. Recovering, Mycroft propped up on an elbow. He looked down at Moriarty, his face flushed and somehow wicked, yet unreadable.

“Malfeasant devil.” He said. He smirked. His hand raked through Moriarty’s hair.

Moriarty smiled. Well. It took one to know one.

 

 

 


End file.
